pity this busy monster,manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim( death and life safely beyond )
plays with the bigness of his littleness
–electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on itself.
A world of made
is not a world of born—pity poor flesh
and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if—listen:there’s a hell
of a good universe next door;let’s go
3pm today: Occupy Wall Street march!